Miss Dane turned calmly round to her hostess and the guest of the evening, and graciously received the venerable baronet’s profound bow.  At the same instant the music of a waltz struck up, to the jealous artist’s infinite relief.

“Now, then, Miss Dane, if you are ready,” said Mr. Ingelow, rather imperiously.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ingelow,” replied Miss Dane, with infinite calm; “I am really too much fatigued for this waltz.  Sir Roger, some one is singing yonder.  I should like to hear him.”

And under Mr. Ingelow’s angry eyes, she took the enraptured old baronet’s arm and walked away.

“The hoary dotard!” muttered the artist, glaring and grinding his teeth; “the sixty-five-year-old imbecile!  It is the first time I ever heard her decline a waltz under the plea of fatigue.  She’s a heartless coquette, that Mollie Dane, and I am a fool to waste a second thought upon her.”

Miss Dane danced no more that evening, and Sir Roger never left her side.  She talked to him until his old eyes sparkled; she smiled upon him until his brain swam with delight.

And that was but the beginning.  The torments Mr. Hugh Ingelow suffered for the ensuing two weeks words are too weak to describe.  To cap the climax, Dr. Oleander suddenly appeared upon the scene and glowered under bent black brows at coquettish Mollie.

“The idea of being civil to anything so commonplace as a mere doctor,” Miss Dane said to her guardian, when taken to task for the airs she assumed, “when Welsh baronets are ready to go down on their knees and worship the ground I walk on!  If he doesn’t like the way he is treated, he knows the way back to New York.  I never sent for him to come here.”

Sir Roger’s devotion was inexpressible.  No wonder Mollie was dazzled.  The city was on the qui vive.  The piquant little New York beauty, whom the men adored and the women abused, had caught the golden prize.  Would he really ask her to become Lady Trajenna, or would the glamour wear off and leave the saucy little flirt stranded high and dry?

The last night of Mr. Walraven’s stay in Washington settled that question.  They were at a grand reception, Mrs. Walraven magnificent in moiré and diamonds, and Mollie floating about in a cloud of misty pink, and sparkling pearls, and amber tresses.  There, of course, was Sir Roger, and there (also, of course) were Dr. Oleander and Hugh Ingelow in a state of frantic jealousy.

It had come, long ere this, to be a settled thing that the Welsh baronet should never leave her side, except while she was dancing.  So that when, a little before supper, they strolled out on the piazza, it was nothing surprising or remarkable.

The winter night was windless and mild.  Sir Roger’s asthmatic and rheumatic afflictions were quite safe in the warm atmosphere.  Moonlight flooded everything with its misty glory, stars spangled the sky, music came softened by distance from the ball-room—­all was conducive to love and to love-making.  Sir Roger Trajenna, inspired by the music, the moonlight, and the charming little beauty beside him, there and then laid name, heart, and fortune at Miss Dane’s fair feet.